About this Book

Janina came out of the privy at the bottom of her grandparents' garden
on the morning of 1 September 1939 to see two planes circling overhead.
The sound of their machine guns opening up brought her parents,
grandparents and brothers running out of the house to join her. Then
they all rushed back inside again to listen to the radio. They just
caught the announcement of the German attack on Poland, which had begun
at daybreak, then the voice faded away as the batteries died. "Grandpa
turned the switch off and looked at our anguished faces," ten-year-old Janina noted in her diary at the end of that long day. "He knelt in
front of the picture of Jesus Christ and started to pray aloud." They
joined him in the Lord's Prayer. Janina had been expecting to return
with her parents from the little village of Borowa-Góra, where they had
spent the summer holidays with her grandparents, to Warsaw for the start
of school on 4 September, and had been happily anticipating the set of
new school books they had promised to buy her. The ten-year-old knew
that something momentous had just occurred, but had no images yet of
war. Even those adults who had lived through the First World War in
Poland could have no conception of what the second would be like.

That September the start of the new autumn term was seriously disrupted
across Europe. In Germany, schools remained closed at the end of the
summer holidays and children hung around the gates to catch a glimpse of
reservists as they poured in to register at these temporary mobilisation
centres. In the rural calm of the Eifel, west of the Rhine, two little
girls enjoyed the envy of all their friends for being allowed to stand
in the village square with a bag of apples and throw them to the passing
troops. Unfortunately, for many older children, like sixteen-year-old
Gretel Bechtold, the excitement soon died down: the French fired no
shots at the West Wall and soon she had to go back to school.

As street lights were turned off and windows blacked out, Germany's
towns and cities were plunged into a night-time darkness they had not
experienced at night since the pre-industrial era. In Essen, little
girls started pretending to be the nightwatchman who patrolled the
streets reminding people to conceal their lights by calling out
"Blackout! Blackout!" All too soon classes began again. Dangling gas
masks and satchels over their shoulders on the way to school, many
children found they had to write assignments when they got there about
blacking out and other measures of civil defence against air attack.
What with trams and trucks colliding in the unlit streets and
pedestrians missing their footing as they stepped off the kerb, the most
significant change to strike one Hamburg boy, after four months at war,
was the increase in traffic accidents.

In September 1939, there were no scenes in Germany reminiscent of the
jubilation of August 1914, however short-lived and partial that mood of
public ecstasy may in fact have been. Even strongly Nazi families were
unsure how to view the outbreak of war. As fourteen-year-old Liese
listened to the radio broadcast of the Führer's Reichstag speech in
Thuringia in central Germany, she squealed with pleasure. But after only
two weeks of war, she was asking her father what he thought the chances
were of bringing things to a speedy conclusion:

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